


Creatures Lurk Below The Deck

by Waistcoat35



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Epic, Fix-It, Fluff, French Mythology, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insecurity, Monster Hunting AU, Multi, Post-Seine, Slow Burn, Stupid old men, There's dragons and crap, mythical creatures, surprise, tw: canon suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 22:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13669035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: His next words were cut off as something slammed into his back full-force - he heard a cry as he fell face-first from the parapet.(Or, it turns out that monsters are real - and apparently, living in Paris.)





	Creatures Lurk Below The Deck

The lamps at either end of the Pont Au Change turned the misty night air a dull copper colour, their low-hung light glancing off of Javert’s face as he walked. They did nothing at all for the piercing ache in his skull, thrumming whenever he took a heavy, laboured step. His starched shirt collar and stock reminded him of the martingale’s grasp around his neck, and he could no longer tell if his shoulders were being weighed down by the uniform jacket or his own turmoil.

The mist seemed to swirl around the parapet, disguising the water and the stars. In this way Javert could see neither heaven or hell, and surely it was some sort of dreadful allegory for why he found himself here in the first place – a man who could be from either Lucifer or the Lord, his own inability to see the state of limbo between the two so often held by human morality. He took his time, squinting through both the haze of the evening and that of his own mind to try and make out the tumultuous black sea beneath his feet. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to delay this, or know what he was up against.

Several times he took a deep breath, preparing to do it, when the rushes on the left side of the bank would give an almighty tremor and startle him out of his stupor. He didn’t want to risk having any unknown witnesses – but perhaps it was merely some sort of waterfowl settling for the night. Yes, that had to be it – yes. That’s all it was. Time to stop stalling.

So why did he still feel like something was out of place; that something was not where it should be?

His question was more or less answered mere moments later. There had been no rain, only the damp evening air, and in the daylight of the June day the ground had been dry as an old bone gnawed by a wolf, the marrow of even a light breeze spat away. Perhaps it was for this reason that he hadn’t heard the footsteps, relying as most did on the slosh of a shined shoe in a puddle, the crunch of freshly fallen leaves or the creak of an old door in the wind.

“Javert.”

A man who was not an inspector ( _ex-inspector,_ he reminded himself almost bitterly) might have startled and fallen at the sudden intrusion, but Javert had endured decades of thieves and cutthroats and things that leap out from behind you to string out your entrails, and therefore he only flinched slightly before inclining his head to the side, just a fraction.

“What do you _want_ , Valjean? I’ve given you all I can.”

The older man was silent for a moment – Javert could tell from the awkward air when he spoke again that he must have nodded before realising that Javert wasn’t looking at him. Then, with a voice that betrayed the despair that would be in his eyes had Javert turned around (perhaps that was why he refused to – something about Valjean’s eyes, when carrying the right expression, made him want to comply with whatever the damned man asked of him,) he said something that threw the seemingly immovable statue of a man off-kilter.

“You haven’t. This time, you can give me your life.”

Javert remained as he was for a few seconds, brow furrowed as he tried in vain to make sense of the ex-convict’s words. ( _Ex-convict and Ex-Inspector. What a fine fit,_ he growled to himself in his mind.) He shook himself slightly, giving up, and tried not to splutter when he replied.

“What in the blazes do you mean, Valjean? If it is my death you now welcome, then please go ahead. Funny though, isn’t it,” he sneered, though it sounded more weary than he had wanted “that you change your mind so quickly about sparing me when nobody else is watching.”

He has turned his head a little more, almost unconsciously, and now Valjean can see the blazing in his eyes despite his weariness with the world. A beaten and starved wolf is yet a wolf, after all. But Valjean will always be a fool as the wolf will always be a wolf, so he tries to tame that hurt, snarling thing behind the stony façade.

“That is not what I meant. Your life is valuable, to me if not at all to yourself. I merely meant that your life is not merely your own – it belongs to those who care for you as much as it does to you. So I ask of you now, will you allow it to belong to me as well? I’d hate for it to end in such a way.” He had only vaguely registered Valjean stepping closer as he spoke, not fully realising his closeness until a hand, surprisingly soft despite its callouses, wound its way around his wrist.

“Javert, I have never asked of you anything I did not believe you could freely give. Please forgive me for doing so now – but then I have never wanted anything else of you so badly as I do this.” Valjean’s eyes were suspiciously shiny even in the mist, when there was little light to be caught in the air or the soul. He tried desperately to maintain his façade, to fight against this ridiculous man with his kind words and soft hands and warm eyes. But then, he supposed, when warmth melts ice there is little that the ice can do about it, save accept it and yield.

He didn’t want to do that. He had never listened to the man before, and he was a man who could not change, hence his predicament. And yet-

And _yet_.

Valjean had chosen to change. The same might have been said of him once, the stone-hearted convict with tiger’s eyes, who looked upon him with derision just as many a man had, before Javert made them look with terror instead. And yet, at the barricade – that damned barricade – he had flipped their roles around somehow. To Javert being the one caught in a trap of his own doing, the one running, running, _always_ running, and Jean the one chasing.

Jean? No, _Val_ jean.

But the fact remained that a man who he had deemed unchangeable had indeed done the impossible. And it was this, perhaps, that made Javert turn around. Upon seeing Valjean’s relief at the action, he scowled again, opening his mouth to cut off any overzealous accusations of Javert changing his mind. He was not out of the woods yet – or the water, as it would seem.

That’s when he heard the rustling again – but it wasn’t quiet, this time. It was a susurrus, like wind howling around ice, bones scraping over bones. He fought the urge to turn and look, knowing that once his back was to Valjean he wouldn’t have the courage to turn around again.

Apparently Valjean was still skittish from years of looking over his shoulder – he inched forward more, peering over the parapet towards the source of the sound. Javert gave a huff.

“For God’s sake, Valjean, it’s nothing-“

His next words were cut off as something slammed into his back full-force, and one could say that he saw the stars for the first time in that night. (Albeit not quite in the way he had hoped.) He heard a cry as he fell forwards from the parapet, landing face-down on the bridge with a great weight on his back. White hot pain spurted behind his eyes.

There was a grunt as the thing was wrestled off him, and despite his body’s protests he hastily rolled onto his back, using the edge of the parapet to keep his footing as he scrambled upright on wobbly legs. Now the creature was grappling with Valjean, and since Javert was no longer being savaged by it he could get a good look at it. It’s hide was a murky grey with a slight blue-green sheen, just the right shade to stay camouflaged against swampy water. Curved talons scrabbled for purchase against stone, a long and muscular neck bent over Valjean’s face.

 _Valjean_.

Javert, on reflex, reached for his pistol – his hand closed around empty air, and he cursed himself yet again when he realised that the weapon was at the bottom of a foetid pile of muck in a sewer. Before giving himself time to question why helping Valjean was his first instinct, he was flinging himself into the monster’s side with full force, hoping to catch it off-balance. That he did, and they rolled over in a human-and-reptilian heap until Javert, miraculously, came out on top.

Now that he could see it from a better angle ( _better_ may have been something of an understatement, to say the least,) even he felt an unfamiliar jolt of something sharp and bitter that lanced down into the pit of his stomach. It’s head was frilled and ears pointed, a crooked jaw allowing cracked ivory teeth to be seen in mangled gums. The eyes were hollows of wickedness, set in an expression he hadn’t seen in even murderers since Toulon; pure, unfathomable madness and bloodlust.

The talons raked at Javert’s belly, trying to get through several layers of clothing and shredding the front of his uniform jacket. He was glad for its thickness, especially now. It’s head lunged upwards as it snapped and snarled, beads of foul-smelling saliva clinging to Javert’s whiskers as he dodged. Then, it’s neck extended further out as it gained more leverage, and he only kept his facial features intact because a muscled arm yanked the scaly neck backwards, choking the thing. However, just as it seemed like it would be overpowered, Javert was pounded backwards by the reptile’s hind legs.

He hit the wall of the parapet shoulder first with a crunch, sliding down it with a broken-off wheeze. In his shock, Valjean cried out to him, and in a moment the beast was free. However, it had been winded – batlike wings opened on its back, and in a moment it was gone, disappearing down the river, the waterway’s murky black line coursing through the landscape like a seeping, badly-healed scar.

When Javert’s vision finally cleared, Valjean was standing over him, looking inexplicably terrified. Why? The creature was gone now. Unless he was worried about –

No. No, no, no, no, _no_.

He wasn’t worried about _Javert_.

Evidence seemed to point to the contrary, as hands slowly reached for Javert and eased him back up. A brief attempt to lean against the wall told them that Javert’s arm, and possibly shoulder, were injured and therefore useless.

“ _There_ – is that enough to convince you to come home with me?” Valjean sounded as exhausted as Javert felt, and after such a struggle for their lives, he found himself reconsidering for the moment. All he could do was nod and scowl slightly, but as they walked back towards fifty-five Rue Plumet Javert didn’t hate himself for leaning on Valjean quite as much as he should have.


End file.
